Elspeth looked up from the hare she was skinning and sighed, the sound swallowed up by the endless moor around her and the dull grey sky that stretched above. Her father had taught her to cook, but she was more familiar with fish than meat, and she was making a rough job of preparing the hare. She envied Edmund his skill at archery. Cluaran had insisted they work for their keep while they were with him, and the boy had proved so good with the bow that the minstrel had given him the job of providing food for the pot. Edmund was off now, stalking something for the next day. By comparison, cooking was dull work, but at least it kept Elspeth’s hands busy, dulled the ominous prickling that still came and went in her right palm.
The sword had not appeared for three days now, but Elspeth knew it was always with her. Whenever she felt the minstrel’s sharp eyes on her, she wondered if he suspected something. He had seemed doubtful they had needed nothing more than torches to drive off the thieves. Had he glimpsed the sword’s brightness slicing through the shadows? If he had, why not say so? And who was the one who never died? Someone from Cluaran’s past as well as Aagard’s? So many questions she had, but the minstrel’s reserve did not invite them to be asked.
Elspeth found Cluaran difficult to talk to about anything beyond the demands of their journey, but she did not share Edmund’s deep mistrust of him. After that first night, the minstrel seemed to have accepted their company, speaking little but scrupulously sharing food and fire with them. If he goes off on his own every night, that’s his business, Elspeth thought. At least he had led them unerringly so far, always knowing where to go if the path split or lost itself among rocks, knowing where to find water and wood.
A cry from a bird circling above her roused Elspeth from her thoughts, and she forced herself back to the task of skinning the hare. She worked slowly, and Cluaran had returned with water and made up the fire by the time she was finished.
‘A fair job,’ he pronounced, inspecting the carcass. ‘You’ll get better with time.’ He showed her how to spit the animal over the fire, and left her to watch it while he fetched salt from his pack. The bundle was contrived to hold cookware, food, clothes and bedding in neat order. Elspeth was long used to stowing things well on board ship, and she marvelled at the supplies he had packed away: even the harp case had been put to use, with pouches for the bow and arrows along one side.
‘It’s foolish to sleep unarmed by the road in these times,’ Cluaran commented, following Elspeth’s gaze. He looked at her levelly. ‘As you well know. You were lucky those thieves didn’t stay to cause real harm.’
Reddening, Elspeth turned back to the spit. ‘We had the torches,’ she muttered. ‘And Edmund’s a good fighter.’
‘He has his skills,’ the minstrel conceded.
Edmund came back with another brace of hares slung over his shoulder just as Cluaran pronounced the roast hare ready. They sat around the campfire, gnawing at the stringy meat while the last of the light faded. They spoke little. Elspeth was tired from the day’s walking and Edmund was still subdued. But even he looked up with interest when Cluaran announced that they would reach a village before nightfall tomorrow.
‘They know me there,’ he told them. ‘They’ll give us a bed; but times are hard. These,’ he gestured at Edmund’s catch, ‘will make us a deal more welcome.’
It would be good not to sleep on the ground for once, Elspeth thought, even if only for one night. She pulled her blanket more tightly around her, trying to make herself comfortable on the hard ground.
Edmund stirred, and turning towards him, she saw that his eyes were open. She began to speak to him, but he put a finger to his lips and jerked his head towards the other side of the fire.
Cluaran had risen noiselessly to his feet. Without a glance in their direction he turned and strode off into the darkness.
Elspeth waited until she judged the man must be out of earshot, but her voice was still hushed when she spoke.
‘I wonder where he goes.’
Edmund shrugged. ‘Who knows? Just be careful what you say – he walks so softly you can never hear his return.’
It is true, Elspeth thought, remembering the night of the attack when Cluaran had arrived seemingly out of nowhere. And not just Cluaran, but the thieves, too. She propped herself up on one elbow and frowned at Edmund.
‘When those men attacked us, how did you know it was thieves coming, and not Cluaran?’
Edmund stared at her in silence for a long moment.
‘I could see through their eyes,’ he said at last.
‘You mean … you’re Ripente!’ Instinctively Elspeth drew back, her mind filled with stories of the second-sighted traitors who were bought by kings to spy upon their enemies.
‘I may have their sight, but I am no traitor,’ he spat back. Then he smiled bitterly. ‘It took Aagard to recognise what I am, even if it is not what I wish to be. I didn’t even know of it until the storm. Like you with the crystal sword.’
Elspeth looked down at her right hand, flexing the fingers. ‘Then we both have a gift that’s more of a curse.’
‘But your sword saved us,’ Edmund argued. ‘All my gift has brought is trouble.’ His face twisted with pain as he went on, ‘Just before Aagard left us, do you remember what happened?’
‘Aagard said his old enemy – Orgrim – tried to use your eyes. But you have the same power as he, don’t you? And you fought him off.’
‘I managed to push him away, that’s all. But Aagard said he’d return, looking for the sword. And he knows me now, Elspeth!’ Edmund turned away so she could hardly hear his next words: ‘I don’t know if I can keep him out next time.’
Elspeth felt a rush of sympathy. He sounded like a frightened boy, a long way from the powerful, shadowy Ripente figures who had been spoken of in hushed tones throughout her childhood. She longed to comfort him – and perhaps there was a way.
‘I think you’re wrong,’ she said slowly. ‘Orgrim has no reason to come back to you.’ She winced when she saw Edmund’s sudden hopeful look, and hoped she was right.
‘Orgrim uses his power to spy, so how can he spy on someone who knows he’s there?’ she went on. ‘Surely he’d look for someone who can’t sense him in the first place?’ She gulped. ‘Someone like me,’ she said with an effort. ‘Perhaps I’m the one who needs to be prepared.’
Edmund’s face was wary. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Could you look through my eyes?’ Elspeth forced herself to ask.
‘No!’ he cried, twisting away.
‘But think, Edmund!’ she persisted. ‘Aagard told us he had learned to feel when his eyes were being used. Maybe I can as well. The only way is if you try to use my eyes, so that I recognise what it feels like. Otherwise, how will I ever know if Orgrim is trying to spy through me instead?’
Emotions chased across Edmund’s face like clouds. ‘You’re right,’ he said at last. ‘But are you sure you want me to do this?’
Elspeth nodded with more determination than she felt. Edmund sat very still, concentrating his thoughts, while she braced herself, telling herself over and over that she had to trust Edmund, Ripente or no.
Nothing happened. Edmund’s eyes were unfocused; his face as still as stone. After a moment Elspeth risked speaking.
‘What did you see?’
He blinked and looked up, puzzled. ‘I didn’t. I couldn’t see anything!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can’t use your eyes,’ he said. ‘There’s a sort of a … a whiteness around you.’
She stared at him. ‘Has that ever happened before?’
‘No!’ He hesitated. ‘But I’ve hardly used the power before. Perhaps I can’t use it on everyone.’
‘In that case,’ she said with sudden hope, ‘maybe Orgrim can’t either!’
‘Maybe not,’ Edmund said. ‘But it might be you.’ He grinned. ‘I don’t think anyone could make you do something you didn’t want to!’
Elspeth smiled back, but inside she doubted it had anything to do with her. How would a girl raised at sea be able to defend herself against the powers of a Ripente? It must be due to Edmund’s inexperience. Orgrim had had years to master his art – and if he tried to see through her eyes, she was afraid she would betray all her secrets, and Edmund’s, without ever knowing he was inside her mind.
Cluaran had returned by the time they woke. Wherever he had been, it had left him in a cheerful, busy mood.
‘We’ve a long day’s walk if we’re to reach Akeham by nightfall,’ he told them as they packed up their bedrolls.
The day was much the same as previous ones, following a twisting path through a wide, flat expanse of heath and bracken dotted with rocks. The minstrel strode ahead, occasionally humming or singing to himself, but making no effort at conversation; only sometimes turning to check they were still with him. By late morning, Elspeth found she needed most of her breath to keep up with him. But after last night’s discussion of their unwanted gifts, she and Edmund were easier with each other, and they walked together companionably.
As the day wore on their path descended until they could see fields and woodland below them. The sun was low by the time they came to a little stream and followed it to a cluster of homes dwarfed by a great oak tree. The village was smaller than Medwel, the houses little more than straw huts. The chieftain’s wife, a thin, mournful-looking woman, was milking her cow when they arrived. She clearly knew Cluaran and did not look pleased to see him but, as the minstrel had predicted, she cheered up at the sight of the hares and agreed to let the visitors sleep under her husband’s roof. She penned the cow in its byre behind the house and led them inside, telling Cluaran to help her lift the planks off a storage pit in the middle of the floor.
‘Reach in and pull me out the nearest sack,’ she instructed. The minstrel had to lie on the floor and stretch his arm down into the darkness, and Elspeth guessed that whatever supplies were kept there were running low. Eventually Cluaran pulled up a half-full sack and the woman scooped two handfuls of dried beans from it into her cooking-pot, measuring them out with a careful eye.
The chief returned as Elspeth and Edmund were helping to replace the last of the planks over the store hole. He was a lanky, straw-haired man, as thin as his wife, with pale blue eyes the colour of the sky at dawn. Cluaran looked small and shabby beside him, his clothes patched and stained beside the other man’s thick woollen tunic. Yet the chief seemed nervous around the minstrel, and made a point of offering him the best seat near the fire. There were no stools for Elspeth and Edmund, who had to sit on the wooden boards over the store hole. Elspeth didn’t mind being excluded from the circle of conversation; she was too tired to talk, and the hut felt stuffy after their last few nights in the open. Besides, sitting on the rough planks felt oddly comforting, reminding her of her old life on the Spearwa.
She was sharing an oatcake with Edmund, letting the buzz of fireside talk wash over her, when Cluaran held up his hand. It was nearly dark by now, and his thin face, lit on one side by the firelight, looked suddenly ominous.
‘Listen,’ he ordered.
Outside, there was a rapid, regular pattering sound. It became more distinct as they listened, and Edmund went pale.
‘Horses,’ he whispered.
Cluaran leaped to his feet. With a curt word to their hosts, he strode over and hauled Edmund upright as Elspeth, alarmed, jumped up too.
‘Stand by the wall,’ he told them, beginning to haul at the planks on which they had been sitting. The chief hurried to help him, and together they lifted three of the heavy boards, revealing a deep, dark space beneath.
‘In there – both of you!’ Cluaran ordered. As Edmund began to protest, he snapped, ‘We’ve no time to argue! You must not be found here.’
The hoof beats were louder now. Elspeth peered into the dark store hole, wondering how deep it was.
‘For gods’ sake, girl, hurry!’ said the village chief.
Behind him, his wife was wringing her hands. ‘What have you brought on us?’ she wailed to Cluaran. ‘They’ll kill us all if we’re harbouring fugitives.’
Too frightened to speak, Elspeth dropped into the blackness. She landed on a pile of hay. Edmund shot down so fast beside her, she wondered if he had been pushed.
Cluaran’s face appeared in the square of light above them. ‘Not a sound,’ he warned. ‘I’ll come for you when they’ve gone.’ There was a scraping noise as he dragged the planks into place, and the light vanished.
Elspeth crouched in the prickly hay, listening to the sounds above them. The woman’s complaints were a high keening; her husband’s voice an indistinct mutter.
Then they heard Cluaran, clear and sharp from just above them. ‘Tell them that Cluaran the minstrel was your only visitor, but he headed south before nightfall. With luck they’ll come after me.’
His tread was so light that they did not hear him go, but the heavy door swung open and then shut.
It was cold in the store hole, and Elspeth drew closer to Edmund. As her eyes grew used to the blackness, she made out crumbling earth walls, chilly hay beneath them with the food sack propped on a higher pile at one side, and above, a single, faint chink of light through the boards. It seemed only moments before the hoof beats stopped outside. Almost at once there was a loud pounding on the door. Elspeth let out a terrified squeak, and felt Edmund’s hand reach for hers in the darkness and clasp it – though whether to comfort her or him, she could not tell.
She heard a harsh query followed by quick, frightened answers, but could make out no words. Then heavy footsteps sounded over their heads. Elspeth strained her ears as the man with the harsh voice came into the house.
‘An old man, Aagard by name. He’s tall, white-haired. Has he been this way?’
‘Aagard the healer?’ The chief sounded genuinely surprised. ‘He lives many leagues away, down on the coast. They say he hardly ever leaves his cave. What would you want with him?’
‘None of your business! Give us some food, and we’ll be off. Maybe this minstrel of yours will know more.’
Elspeth froze as more footsteps banged above them. Who were these men, and why did they want Aagard? And what would happen if they found her and Edmund instead?
At that moment the men seemed more intent on eating than searching. ‘Only milk?’ she heard in tones of disgust. ‘Give us ale, woman!’
Elspeth was cold and cramped, but she dared not stir a muscle in case she made a noise that was heard in the room above. Instead, she kept still and listened to the boards creak under the weight of the visitors. The men above had been cursing their host’s food and boasting of their horses, but now their conversation had taken a new turn. It made her flesh prickle and she felt Edmund tense beside her.
‘Turned the cave upside down, and no sign of him or the sword. All we found was that empty sea chest. His lordship won’t be pleased.’
‘But we searched the coast for three leagues each way,’ said the second voice. ‘Could we have missed him at Medwel?’
‘Where would he have hidden? There’s barely a hut left standing!’ The first man began to laugh. ‘Did you see them run?’
The second man laughed too. Beneath their feet, Elspeth stared in horror at her hand. It was because of her sword that these men had murdered the people of Medwel, and meant to kill Aagard! Elspeth felt Edmund shaking – she did not know if it was with fear or fury.
At last an order was given, and there was scraping and clattering as the men got to their feet. Boots tramped across the boards once more, and – finally – there was the sound of hoofs outside, riding off.
Elspeth was too frightened to move, or suggest to Edmund that they climb out of their hiding place. Instead she sat, clasping his hand in hers, as the hay-scented darkness pressed around them.